I used to be proud to say I was in recovery. Now, the words feel conflicted, almost cringe-worthy as they leave my lips. It's something I’ve said since 2003, but recovery hasn’t always been kind to me. I didn’t have insurance back then, and when I tried to get into rehab, the waitlist was two weeks long. They said they’d call when a bed opened, but I couldn’t wait two weeks. I was ready then. It wasn’t until a year later, when I was ready again to change my relationship with substances, that my only options were AA or NA.
At 19, my first AA meeting felt surreal. I couldn’t even legally buy alcohol, and the old-timers wasted no time reminding me, with crude remarks like, "I've spilt more beer than you’ve ever drank." Really helpful, right?
Then I found NA. It felt like home, and for years, I was all in—working the steps, holding numerous service positions, bringing meetings into hospitals, institutions, and jails, speaking at conventions, and sponsoring many folks myself. I found community, structure, and a sense of belonging. But despite all that, there were things that never sat right with me.
I wasn’t “allowed” to share about my eating disorder or struggles with self-injury in meetings. When my partner at the time returned to use, I was shamed for staying with them. During my 4th step, I was asked to reflect on my part in abusive relationships, including childhood sexual abuse, which triggered a breakdown that landed me in a psych facility. On top of that, I was shamed for handing out syringes as part of street outreach, which, though illegal back then, was desperately needed.
Despite this, all my friends were in recovery, so I stayed. But over time, I began questioning: What was recovery for me? Was attending meetings actually helping? I was told I’d die if I didn’t go, and after losing friends who stopped attending, I believed it. Many of their deaths, I think, were tied to the pressure of counting days and losing their “time in recovery.” That’s a conversation for another day.
Thankfully, I found a DBT therapist who encouraged me to explore and question. Recovery rooms discourage questioning: "It works if you work it." But what if it wasn’t working for me? She gave me the space to ask that without telling me I’d die. I even questioned whether I could drink in my late 20s, having gotten into recovery at 19 for stimulant use and trauma. She helped me make a plan to leave the 12-step program, and we worked on what a healthy relationship with alcohol could look like.
I don't know what could have emotionally prepared me for what was next. Leaving those meetings meant losing my entire support system. Friends I had known for nearly a decade cut ties with me overnight. I was shamed, ostracized, and labeled as "sick"—though I wasn’t. Back then, the only pathway was the 12-step recovery, and my recovery didn’t look like theirs. I felt completely alone. Even today, I wouldn’t feel safe, supported, or welcome in those rooms, especially knowing how disposable I was to them.
For a long time, I associated recovery with the rooms. And though I know they are separate, I struggle to shake that association. I don’t want to be tied to people in recovery who shame others, cast them out, and label them as "sick." I’ve lost too many people I loved because of this mindset.
Losing my community was really hard, and for a long time, I didn’t have one. I’ve rebuilt that sense of belonging now, but it was a long and painful process, and I still struggle with trusting that people won’t just toss me aside. I don’t do well in spaces where I feel silenced or where I’m not allowed to question how things are.
I still identify as a person in recovery, but mostly because I don’t know what other words to use. I’ve struggled with substances, self-injury, an eating disorder, and experiences with madness. When trying to connect with others, "person in recovery" feels like recognizable shorthand—it's a way to say, "I’ve struggled too." But it doesn’t capture everything I’ve been through, nor does it feel fully authentic; it’s more a phrase I use because it’s what people say. Maybe it’s something I need to think more about—how do I really want to define my experience?